“Any luck?” I shouted.
He came right up to me. “No, she seems to have disappeared entirely.”
“That’s a pity,” I said. “She was a good worker. I’ll have to get another girl to do the house cleaning.”
He was looking at me hard. “This is the last place anybody knows she was.”
“Well, the fellow who knows where she is doesn’t seem to want to tell anybody, does he?”
“I reckon not,” said the sheriff.
The other two men had been wandering about near the old tree trunk. One of them called him over, and was pointing to the ground. I heard him send the other fellow back to the car for some shovels, and I ambled over, rather carelessly, to see what they were looking at. Where the tree trunk had been lying, there was a long, narrow hollow. I suppose the ground under it had been soft, and the rain had washed away the loose earth leaving a sort of gully. In fact, it looked a little bit like a sunken grave.
I didn’t stand around while they were digging, but after a while, it was obvious they weren’t finding what they were looking for. Then they went into a sort of huddle, and I could see by the way they were stretching their arms out they were making rough measurements of the tree trunk, and comparing it to the space where they had been digging. They started trying to move the trunk, but it was heavy and it had got itself jammed between some old tree stumps.
The sun was just going down, so I packed up my painting stuff, and left them working, while I went back to the cottage. It was quite dark when they came to get me, and they had Nellie’s body wrapped up in an old blanket.
“It looks mighty bad for you, son,” the sheriff said.
“I know,” I answered, “but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You got any theories about it?” he asked.
“Yes. It must have been Billy Sands.”
He shook his head. “Nope. We’ve been asking all over the village about him. There ain’t no such person.”
So I had been right after all. The little witch had invented him, just to cover up for George. “You don’t really think I did it,” I said.
“You’re number one suspect.”
“But I’m a sick man. I only got out of the hospital a short while ago. You don’t think I could have done all that by myself.”
“That makes half sense,” he answered. “Who else could it have been?”
That was where I had my inspiration. “Well, I didn’t want to make trouble for him, but it must have been George.”
“George who?”
“George Poldroon.”
The sheriff sniffed. “Who is this George Poldroon?”
“He’s a fellow who’s been hanging around here for a week or two, chasing after Nellie.”
“What’s he like?”
I gave him a hundred per cent detailed description of George. They let me take my painting stuff with me to the jail, and I drew him several pictures of George, full face, profile and different angles. The sheriff had copies made and passed them around.
I don’t mind being in jail. I could almost enjoy it if the old man and my uncle didn’t keep coming down and crying on my shoulder. Yesterday they sent the attorney over to see me, Victor Krantz. I made him sit in front of me so that I could paint his portrait while he talked to me. It was funny, but the face came out like a woman’s; it might almost have been Nellie.
Just Following Orders
by George Snyder
One of the more obvious blessings of bureaucracy is the absence of personal responsibility for corporate action. To accept or reject an urgent request, therefore, rarely disturbs a dutiful middleman.
It was already growing dark when Joe Bents drove away from the lights of Los Angeles. He glanced at the girl next to him, while he tooled the car through traffic towards the freeway.
She sat stiffly, next to the door, her face expressionless. It was a nice face, fine-boned and pretty. The white party dress was torn across the shoulder, revealing ugly black and blue marks on the soft white skin. The only sign of fear was the handkerchief she kept twisting around her fingers. She looked at Joe.
“What kind of man are you?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Joe said nothing. He reached out and turned on the car radio. It would begin now. The call for decency first, then the begging, and finally, the offering. Women were such cowards when it came to dying.
“Is this how you get your kicks?” she asked.
Joe kept his eyes on the road. “Look lady,” he said, “anything you got to say, you should have said to Lou. I don’t want to hear it. I’m just following orders.”
“Lou’s orders?”
Joe was on the San Bernardino freeway, heading east. Traffic was thin and he let the car cruise at sixty. Lou had said to find an out-of-the-way place. “Make it look like an accident, but get the money first.” That was all Joe knew about it. He looked at the rear view mirror. The headlights were still with him.
“How many women have you taken for rides?” she asked.
Joe kept his eyes on the road, saying nothing.
“Funny, you don’t look like a killer.”
He looked at her. “Kind of gabby, aren’t you?”
“You have a name?” she asked.
What difference could it make? If it made her feel better to talk, let her. He had to get the money first anyhow.
“Joe,” he said. “Joe Bents.”
Her voice was less shaky. “Funny, you don’t look like a killer.”
“You said that.”
She stopped twisting the handkerchief. She was relaxing. “How does it feel to be called a killer?”
Joe shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me one way or the other. If it makes you feel better to say it...”
“Anything to make the victim comfortable, is that it?”
“Look, lady. It’s nothing personal. I’m...”
“I know. You’re just following orders. And stop calling me ‘lady’! I have a name.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“Constance White. My friends call me Connie. You, Mister Executioner can call me Constance.”
The city limits were behind them, and the freeway was almost deserted. They were going past Monterey Park. Joe noticed the headlights had dropped back. He studied the girl next to him.
The nyloned legs coming out of the party dress were long and slim. The waist seemed so small, Joe knew he could completely surround it with his hands. The breasts weren’t large, but high and proud. But the face — the face was outstanding. Long black hair, hanging to her shoulders, contrasted with bright red lipstick and green eyes. What a waste, Joe thought.
She knew he was openly admiring her. “If I went to bed with you, would that make any difference?”
“No,” Joe said, “you’re kind of shopworn.”
“Thanks a lot, gentleman!”
“Forget it. I’m sorry.”
She went back to twisting the handkerchief. “How much is Lou paying you?”
“You can’t match it.”
A district. His payment was going to be his own district. He’d worked his way up from messenger for a small bookie, to this. And now he was getting his own district. But it was only the beginning. He wanted all the districts; he wanted Lou’s position.
No, this dark-haired beauty could hardly match it.
The freeway had run a straight line from Monterey Park to the outskirts of El Monte. Now it began a series of slow curves and slight up and down grades. Joe checked the mirror. The gap had closed, and the headlights were still with him.
Constance turned around in the seat, looking back. “Someone’s following us,” she said.
“I know.”
“Is this part of it?”
Joe nodded. “My ride back to Los Angeles.”